Wednesday 8th March 8st 12, alcohol units 7 (why? why?), cigarettes 22, calories 1,850
(perfectly fine particularly in light of freakish am gym session). 11.30am. Delighted
by reports that by the turn of the millennium a third of all households
will be single, I telephone Jude and Tina from the office to break the
news. At last we are no longer tragic freaks. Jude grumpily claims it
will take centuries for the world to adapt to not asking, "Why
aren't you married?" in patronising voices at every available
opportunity and for Smug Marrieds to lose the drive to fix you up with
obvious homosexuals through excruciating informal suppers. Tina,
worse, simply bursts into tears. Eventually she explains in a sheep's
voice that Richard, whom she has been seeing for 18 months, has chucked
her for asking him if he wanted to go on holiday with her. Tina is full
of remorse and self-loathing. "I'm a fool, it's all my fault. I
asked for too much to satisfy my own needs. Oh, if only I could turn
back the clock." An
emergency summit is scheduled for 6.30pm in the Dome. By this time
Perpetua is practically apoplectic with rage over all my personal phone
calls, but suddenly, like a gift from God, Daniel appears, sits himself
on the edge of my desk, with his back to her, takes out his diary and
murmurs, "How are you fixed for Friday?" Yesssssss! Oh bliss,
oh joy. 11pm. At
the Dome, Jude presents her theory on the Richard situation:
"Emotional Fuckwit-age", which is spreading like wildfire
among men over 30. As women glide from their twenties to thirties, she
claims, the balance of power subtly shifts. Even the most outrageous
former minxes lose their nerve, wrestling with the first twinges of
existential angst: fears of dying alone and being found three weeks
later half-eaten by an alsatian. Stereotypical notions of shelves,
spinning wheels and sexual scrapheaps conspire to make you feel stupid,
no matter how much time you spend thinking about Joanna Lumley.
"And men like Richard," says Jude, "play on the chink in
the armour to wriggle out of intimacy, commitment, maturity, honour and
the natural progression of things between a man and a woman." By
this time Tina and I are going shhh shh out of the corners of our mouths
and sinking down into her coats. After all there's nothing so
unattractive to a man as strident feminism. "How dare he say you
were getting too serious by asking to go on holiday?" yells Jude.
"What is he talking about?" Thinking
moonily about Daniel and the date I venture that not all men are like
Richard. At which point Jude starts on a long illustrative list of
Emotional Fuckwit-age in progress on our friends, one whose boyfriend of
13 years refuses even to discuss living together, another who started an
affair with a man who chucked her after the fourth date because it was
getting too serious, another who was pursued by a bloke for three months
with impassioned proposals of marriage, who ducked out two weeks after
she succumbed and repeated the whole process with her best friend. "We
women are only vulnerable because we are a pioneer generation. In 20
years' time men won't even dare start with Fuckwit-age because we will
just laugh in their faces," declares Jude. At this point, Alex
Walker, who works in Jude's company, strolls in with a stunning blonde
who is about eight times as attractive as him. He ambles over to say hi.
"Is this your new girlfriend?" asks Jude. "Well, chuh,
you know, she thinks she is, but we're not going out, we're just
sleeping together. I ought to stop it really, but, well..." he
says, smugly. "Oh
that is just such crap, you cowardly, dysfunctional little schmuck.
Right. I'm going to talk to that woman," says Jude, getting up. We
forcibly restrain her and Alex, looking panic-stricken, rushes back to
continue his Fuckwit-age unrumbled. Friday 10th March 8st 9, alcohol units 6 (urine of Satan), cigarettes 400 (feels like),
calories 875 (off food). Huh.
Daniel and I had a dream date at an intime little Genoan restaurant near
his flat. "Um... Right. I'll get a taxi," I blurted awkwardly
as we stood in the street. Then, looking amused, he lightly brushed a
hair from my forehead, took my cheek in his hand and kissed me, full on
the lips, urgently, desperately. After a while he held me hard against
him, and whispered throatily, "I don't think you'll be needing that
taxi." The
second we were inside his flat we fell upon each other like beasts,
shoes, jackets strewn in a trail across the room. He suddenly said,
"Bridget, look, I'm not sure this is a good idea." (His hand
was at this moment undoing the zip on my skirt.) "I
mean, I think it would be great to sleep together a few times, but I
don't think we should have a relationship," he said, then caveat in
place, carried on with the zip. Had it not been for Jude and the drink,
I think I would have sunk back, powerless into his arms. As it was, I
leapt to my feet, pulling up my skirt. "That is such crap," I
slurred. "How dare you be so fraudulently flirtatious, cowardly and
dysfunctional. I am not interested in Emotional Fuckwit-age.
Goodbye." |